


Reliance

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Common Cold, M/M, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock gets a nasty bug that can’t be magically cured away for some reason I haven’t explained. Spones. Fluffy sickfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reliance

Spock is dozing. He cannot sleep, not properly, and cannot adequately concentrate to meditate, so he does his best to doze. His throat feels thick and heavy, his head hurts, and his ears  _ache_. He can feel mucus from the base of his neck all through him, and the lights of his quarters feel brighter than usual.

He hears, dimly, the sound of the doors opening.

“Spock.” There is the familiar voice, the Southern twang to its cadence, and Spock opens bleary eyes. He winces slightly at the brightness, and he closes them again before he can even see the other’s silhouette; McCoy’s hand touches his forehead, brushing his hair back from his head. The touch reminds him of how he has been sweating, how his hair  _clings_ , and he lets out a soft groan.

He feels like vomiting.

“How’re we feeling, from a gauge of one to ten?” McCoy asks in his regular drawl, and Spock hears the quiet whistle of the tricorder. A glass is pressed to his lips, and Spock takes a sip, feeling the water in his dry mouth: it proves difficult to swallow.

“I cannot accurately surmise how  _we_  are feeling, Doctor.” Spock croaks out, voice weak, but it is gratifying to hear McCoy snort.

“Well, can’t be that bad if you can still cheek me, ya green hobgoblin.” McCoy grumbles.

“I am feeling particularly more green than usual, Leonard.” Spock agrees, voice hoarse. It hurts to speak, but he does so anyway: McCoy lets out a quiet whistle of sound.

“Well, if you’re making jokes, you must be  _real_  sick.” He mutters, and Spock holds up his hand, slowly. He feels  _awful_ , feels uncomfortable, and in pain, and he can’t stand to open his eyes so he reaches sightlessly for the other’s hand.

McCoy’s catches his quickly enough, and for a moment, Spock relaxes some, letting out a quiet sigh as he feels the warmth of the doctor’s fingers, and the barest hint of the other’s energy. They remain like that for a few moments, and then McCoy breaks the embrace to go for something more intimate, in Vulcan terms; something more human.

He interlinks their fingers, and Spock grips the other’s hand as McCoy grips his.

“You’ll be back to your old self in a day or two, Spock. I’ll give you a hypo to clear out your throat.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Spock says shortly, and then McCoy lifts their hands, dragging his lips over the back of Spock’s hand. The Vulcan lets out a short, quiet noise, because McCoy’s breath is  _heated_  on his skin, and it is a perfect distraction from the thick discomfort in his head and his ears and his chest and his throat.

“I’ll sleep here, with you, tonight.” McCoy says, matter-of-factly, and then he reaches out, patting the other’s chest affectionately with his spare hand. Spock wears light pyjamas, and does not sleep naked as he usually does – he is glad, however, to be confined to quarters. Better here than to be on one of the tables in med bay.

“That is an illogical course of action. Further exposure to my illness will only-” He really should have known the other man would cut him off.

“Shut up, Spock.” Spock’s lip twitches, and he wishes he could stand to open his eyes and examine the other’s no doubt half-irritated, half-amused expression. It is always satisfying when he can affect the doctor to some level of exasperation. “I don’t care ‘bout your logic, you hear me?”

“Not as well as usual, I confess.” McCoy  _tuts_  at him.

“You gonna keep on giving me lip?” He asks, and his thumb rubs pleasantly over the back of Spock’s hand – it is good to have McCoy’s hand is his own like this, good to feel the other’s pleasantness so close.

“As long as I live.” Spock promises, and McCoy laughs this time, honest laughter than hurts a bit for the sake of being louder than McCoy’s talk, but a little pain is worth it. McCoy leans over him – Spock sees the shadow even through his own eyelids – and presses his mouth to Spock’s temple. It is tender, gentle.

McCoy has a tendency to be “soft” when his friends and lovers become ill.

“You gonna survive without me?” McCoy asks, and Spock is relieved when the lights are turned down to their dimmest point, though he does not show it.

“To borrow a phrase from Mister Scott, I believe I shall “muddle through”.” The doctor’s hand leaves his own, and Spock feels its loss keenly, but says nothing on the subject. He imagines McCoy knows.

McCoy’s hand threads through Spock’s hair again, and Spock wishes for a moment it was longer, that he might feel the other man’s fingers for just a little while more there, but his haircut is comfortably within regulation parameters, and it is best not to stray from a working model.

“I’ll see you later.” The doctor says, and Spock turns on his side, letting out a quiet, harsh cough as the doors open and close. He will try to sleep, but he doesn’t imagine he will manage it until Leonard McCoy is rubbing foul-scented balm onto his chest and quietly grumbling about his day.

Perhaps Spock is too reliant on the man; perhaps the dependence is mutual and, in truth, quite worth it. 


End file.
